4

So this is Paris.

From the passenger seat, Gabi gaped at the Gothic-style churches and the cream-colored stone buildings accented with sidewalk cafés and red awnings. The spacious parks looked threadbare and left her wondering how lush the grass and flowers had been before the war.

Has God abandoned Paris? Abandoned all of us? She pushed the thoughts out of her mind as quickly as they had come. Many voices had muttered such things over the previous years. She’d heard them among her father’s congregation, but she’d never allowed such foolish ideas to enter her mind, until now.

Eric took his eyes off the road and glanced over at her. It was easy to do since only the occasional delivery truck and a few bicyclists vied for space. “How are you doing?”

They had barely said two sentences to each other in the last hour.

“I feel like I’m waking up from a bad dream.” Gabi’s voice quivered, surprising her. She folded her hands on her lap and clenched them together. She couldn’t see blood on her hands, but she could feel it. Even the anticipation and excitement of entering Paris—a city she’d wanted to visit since she was a child—hadn’t gotten her mind off the brutal incident they’d just survived.

Lifting her eyes off her hands, she looked out the window, forcing herself to push the images of the dead men out of her mind. If only the ache in her heart and the pain deep in her gut would let her forget completely.

“Arriving in Paris is helping.” She sighed, hoping her voice sounded convincing. “Even under the thumb of German occupation, she’s still a jewel.”

Gabi picked up the apple on the seat next to her—the one she’d promised Eric she’d eat but still had no appetite for. She tossed it from one hand to another. “I don’t think I’ll get over our run-in with those German soldiers—or Russians, or whoever they were—anytime soon.”

Eric reached over and squeezed her left knee. “You did what you had to do. I was wondering how we could get to that pistol. Your quick thinking saved our lives.”

She cocked her chin, repeating aloud the words that had been replaying in her mind. The words she was trying to reassure herself with. “It was him or us. That’s what they taught us at the Bern firing range. I have no regrets.”

Her stomach churned again, and an icy chill traveled down her spine as she remembered the man’s face inches from hers, his foul breath moistening her cheek.

Willing her mind elsewhere, she turned her attention back to the passing scenery. Through the windshield, Paris seemed calm at this late-morning hour, but she wondered what lurked beneath its serene surface. The grand boulevard was framed with broad, leafy trees and fronted by soft-colored stately buildings. Shops were shuttered, and only a handful of cafés had opened, their tables dotting the sidewalks. A solitary waiter wearing a long white apron served demitasse to two customers.

She’d spotted the spindly Eiffel Tower before Eric, but her excitement was tempered by an enormous red flag with a black swastika fluttering atop the landmark, a tangible symbol of an oppressive regime shackling the spirit of the three and a half million Parisians.

That was the only Nazi swastika she’d seen so far. In this neighborhood, other flags—some tattered and faded, some homemade from bed sheets—hung from windows and rooftops. “I’m surprised to see all the French flags. I wonder when they came out of hiding.”

Eric leaned out the car window and looked skyward at the numerous displays of blue, white, and red vertical stripes that had symbolized France since the Revolution of 1789. “They’re definitely showing defiance. Since Hitler’s armies marched in, it’s been illegal to show the tricolore, but that’s going to change.”

“The French flags are a good sign. That means we’re in a neighborhood controlled by the Resistance, correct?” She sat straighter in her seat.

“You’d think so. Take a look at that poster.” Eric pointed toward his right.

A tall placard, plastered on a building, showed a rendering of a clenched fist with the proclamation “A chacun son boche!”

“ ‘To everyone his Kraut,’ ” Gabi translated. “Must be a word play off A chacun son goût.” To each his own taste.

Eric grunted. “They’re saying it’s open season on German soldiers.”

Gabi shivered as memories of the road outside Rozay-en-Brie returned. Of the cool metal of the soldier’s rifle tip sliding up her leg. She did what she had trained for. They had decided their fate.

She returned the apple to her seat and picked up the map, trailing her finger to where they were headed—the Latin Quarter. Eric slowed their vehicle slightly as they came upon makeshift barricades the local populace had erected to stop—or at least slow—German tanks and troop trucks. The resourceful Parisians had thrown old bedsprings, refrigerators, bulky cabinets, and even kitchen sinks into the jerry-built fortifications. At the entrance to one neighborhood, a long line of women and children passed paving stones ripped up from the street to each other. Under their pile of stones, the burnt hull of a German troop truck formed the main bulwark.

Even though the citizens appeared thin and their clothes threadbare, cheeks were flushed. Mostly from the work, but also from the hope that their efforts would make a difference. Chins lifted as their vehicle passed, and tired eyes met Gabi’s for a fraction of a second before they turned back to their work.

“What’s that green thing?” Gabi pointed toward a rectangular stall leaning against the barricade. The rusty green edifice, which looked like an outdoor telephone booth, lay atop a barricade that included cobblestones, old furniture, and even an upright piano.

“Ah, you may not want to know. Might ruin your impression of Paris.” Eric’s humored smile made her want to find out even more.

“Come on.” She enjoyed teasing him, especially when his cheeks colored.

“Uh, French men and German soldiers use them to relieve—”

“Got it,” Gabi interrupted, then wrinkled her nose in disgust.

She returned to scanning the tired faces of Parisians who’d ventured out. More glances followed their Red Cross sedan, one of the few cars motoring down the Avenue d’Italie. The locals probably wondered what a Mercedes bearing Swiss license plates and Red Cross markings was doing in Paris. They passed an old Citroën huffing and puffing to keep up with a half-dozen bicyclists pedaling along the right-hand lane.

“That car looks as if it’s about to explode.”

Eric raised his eyebrows as he peered through the windshield. “That’s because it’s fueled by a wood-burning engine. You need a permit and plenty of money to bribe the Germans to drive a car, especially with the petrol shortage. The wood-burning conversion is the only option—unless you want to pedal a bike.”

Gabi’s eyes moved from the strange vehicle to the map in her lap. “We’re coming up to a roundabout. Look for Boulevard Saint-Michel. It should be straight ahead.”

Eric weaved his way through a half-dozen bicyclists and smoothly entered the roundabout. They swung onto the spoke leading to Boulevard Saint-Michel, which took them toward the Sorbonne.

“A left here at Rue Racine,” Gabi directed.

They turned into a narrow street, where the urban fabric changed dramatically and tall buildings cast deep shadows. Gabi remembered learning about these medieval fortified houses known as hôtels, a French term dating back to a time when wealthy merchants sought a solution to defending their homes—or at least closing them off from the street. The residences were built with walls and buildings that lined the edges of the property, leaving a courtyard in the middle.

The address led them to a two-story gated wall. An older man with gray frizzy hair stepped out onto the street to greet their car.

“The Red Cross?” he said, stating the obvious.

“Yes, we’re here to deliver medical supplies,” Eric replied.

“Password?”

“La gloire de Paris,” Eric said. The glory of Paris. “And yours?”

“Jean has a long moustache.”

Eric chuckled. “Glad you heard our coded message on Radio London.” He thrust his right hand through the car window and exchanged a brief handshake.

“Right this way, monsieur.” The guard whistled, and a massive gate opened, revealing an arched passage that opened to a courtyard and an imposing four-story residence.

A pair of men dressed in sweat-stained shirts and long pants watched Eric steer the Mercedes into the large courtyard—where he was shocked to see a Panzer tank pointing at him. Eric’s heart pounded and his fingers stretched, preparing to go for his pistol. Then his eyes darted to the faces of the men, whose eyes drooped in weariness. Only then did he relax, guessing the tank to be booty.

With a cigarette dangling from his lip and a carbine slung over his shoulder, one of the men lazily gestured for him to park next to the tank. Eric lifted his hand in affirmation and slid the Red Cross vehicle between the Panzer and some rusting bicycles. In the shadow of the tank, a small flock of chickens flapped their wings and scattered for safety.

Eric hopped out and opened the car door for Gabi. They approached the unshaven freedom fighters, who each wore soiled navy berets and looked like they hadn’t slept in a week. Their brimless felt caps were nonetheless swept jauntily to one side.

The taller one approached Eric. “Welcome to Paris. I’m Bernard Rousseau, and this is Alain Dubois. I believe you know who we are, correct?”

“Yes, Mr. Dulles filled us in.” Eric regarded Bernard, dressed like a scarecrow in fraying olive green pants and matching long-sleeved shirt. Four years of lean rations had left a gaunt face under a beak nose. His sallow brown eyes, however, contained a spark that spoke of quiet optimism.

“The Panzer was a surprise greeting.” Eric gestured toward the long-barreled tank marked with an Iron Cross. “Where did that come from?”

“We liberated the German tank this morning.” Rousseau exchanged a knowing look with Dubois. “Almost out of fuel, though. You have the supplies of medicine?”

Before Eric could answer, the faint sound of church bells pealed in the distance. All four tilted their heads and perked their ears.

“Mon Dieu.” Bernard’s cigarette dropped from his gaping mouth as he crossed himself. “We haven’t heard church bells since . . . the Occupation began.”

“Not even for Christmas or Easter?” Gabi asked.

“Not once. Turns out the Nazis aren’t very religious. The only assemblies they ordain are those in front of firing squads. But the bells can mean only one thing . . .” Emotion caused the man’s voice to tremble.

He didn’t need to finish. Eric understood. The people were winning the streets, and neighborhoods were being liberated.

Bernard found his voice again. “The boches must be retreating like stuck pigs.” He slapped his palms together, clearly more energized than a moment ago. “But the fighting is sure to be heavy. Let’s get these medicines unloaded now!”

Rousseau unshouldered his rifle, as did Dubois. Together, the four of them returned to the car, where Eric opened the sedan’s trunk. Four crates stuffed with medicines and supplies were cached inside. He handed out each crate one by one. The two partisans stacked them outside the entrance.

“We have one more small gift for you.” Eric reached inside the trunk for a small tool chest. Then he sat down in the driver’s seat and turned toward the inside door panel. Rousseau and Dubois moved for a closer look. Eric loosened a series of screws until he could pull down the top of the door panel. The cavity was crammed with stacks of French francs and American dollars, each wrapped in a rubber band.

“Gabi, can you get my backpack? It should be on the backseat.”

Gabi handed it to him, and Eric deposited the bundles of cash into the leather-lined bag.

“Sacré bleu. Where did you get—?” Bernard, clearly astonished, left the sentence unfinished. Color filled his weary face.

“Don’t ask, but we almost didn’t make it here.”

“How so?” Though Rousseau raised the question, he and Dubois’ eyes were fixed on the stacks of bills that Eric jammed into his backpack.

“We had a run-in this morning with some German soldiers, except they were Polish or Russian.” Eric clucked his tongue. “Let’s just say they weren’t looking to see if our travel documents were in order.”

“What happened?” Bernard’s eyes finally moved to Eric’s, a look of concern clouding his face.

“Gabi saved us.” Eric’s hands paused, and he fingered a bundle. He again questioned whether he should have let Dulles talk him into bringing her to Paris.

He shook his head. “Quite a story, and I assure you that they are no longer a threat.” His words sounded cockier than he felt.

“I understand this problem. We’ve heard about those Ost soldiers.” Bernard reached for a pack of cigarettes, placing one in the corner of his mouth. “Extremely unpredictable. The German officers put them in front-line trenches and shoot any man leaving his post. Caged, wild animals, every one of them.”

As Bernard spoke, both anger and pain filled his gaze. Anger Eric understood, but the pain? There could be a thousand reasons for the emotion. Memories the freedom fighters carried with them were no doubt equally as graphic and painful as he and Gabi had just experienced.

Eric was nearly finished fishing out the francs and dollars from the door when Gabi cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, but are you in charge here, Monsieur Rousseau?” Her eyes were fixed on his.

The Resistance leader gave a slight nod and pulled at his navy beret.

Gabi pursed her lips. “We were instructed to convey a message along with the money and medicines. The message could not be written down. We must deliver it verbally.” Gabi looked over to Eric and then back to Rousseau.

Bernard flipped the lid of a silver lighter and lit his cigarette. “Please continue,” he said, blowing a line of smoke to the side.

“Do you still have the capability to pass along messages to your leaders?”

“The Resistance works through various networks, but I’m part of the senior leadership.”

“What I have to say may not be what you or the Resistance want to hear.”

Bernard stroked his stubbly beard. “And who’s the message from?”

“The highest levels of the United States military.” Gabi paused for dramatic effect. Then she plunged ahead. “First of all, the Allies do not want to be pulled into bare-knuckle street battles to dislodge the German garrison. That would be destroying a city in order to save it. The plan from General Eisenhower at Supreme Headquarters is for the Allied armies to bypass Paris and drive for Germany. Let the Nazis chase after them.” She spoke with confidence.

Eric held his breath, anticipating Bernard’s response. Anger flashed on his face, just as Eric had expected. Somehow the medicine and cash they’d just unloaded seemed like a paltry offering compared to what these men needed.

“That’s crazy!” Bernard growled. “Paris will become a mound of rubble, a diamond smashed into a thousand pieces. Surely this General Eisenhower can be persuaded that history will severely judge such a folly—”

Eric broke in, lifting his hands as if to calm the man. “Here’s how Dulles explained it to me. If the Allies were to rush into Paris, there would be firefights in the streets, and that would favor the Occupation force. They know these streets, they are well-armed, and they can make use of fortified defensive positions. Even if the Allies rushed in, they do not have enough food and petrol to supply Paris. Those critical supplies are earmarked for Patton’s tanks, which are sweeping across the plains south of the city and driving for Germany at this moment. We beg you to keep your powder dry for a little bit longer.”

Bernard held up his right hand. “C’est impossible. You can’t stop us from throwing out the boches. The situation will come to a head very soon.”

“Tell the Resistance leaders to wait,” Eric continued. “Our intelligence tells us that the German garrison is 20,000 strong. A full-scale rebellion means they’d have open season to destroy this beautiful city block by block. It would be a bloodbath.”

“No!” Bernard pulled his beret from his head, balling it in his fist. “They must die. They must pay!” The pain in his voice was fresh. His loss was an open wound.

Gabi took a step closer to Bernard. She dared to place a soft hand on his arm. “Learn from the Warsaw Uprising. At this very moment, Polish insurgents are being crushed underfoot by their German captors, who are defending ‘Fortress Warsaw’ and counterattacking the Russian Army.”

“We heard the same thing from the German propagandists,” Bernard conceded.

“So you know,” Gabi whispered. “The Warsaw Uprising started three weeks ago with high hopes, but the Nazis are ruthless. They’re torching neighborhoods, mowing down civilians. I fear Warsaw is a model for how Hitler’s armies will leave nothing but dead bodies and scorched earth behind.”

Eric caught the look between Rousseau and Dubois that revealed how they thought things would be different in Paris. He reached out and placed a hand on Gabi’s back, urging her to continue. Pride again filled him at how capable she was for a young woman in her mid-twenties—and how dedicated. Even though she was shaken from today’s events, he knew it would not hinder her from performing the task she’d been asked to do.

She glanced to him and then pointed toward the western horizon. “You need proof? Take a look at the smoke. Who knows what that’s from? German reinforcements could be pouring into the Parisian neighborhoods where those church towers may have heralded libération a bit too prematurely. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Bernard effected a wan smile. “I’ll pass your message up the ladder, but nothing’s going to change. Our leader, Colonel Rol, declared that ‘Paris is worth 200,000 dead.’ That’s how far the Resistance is willing to push to rid ourselves of this national humiliation.”

Eric regarded Bernard’s confident body language, which confirmed his belief that the liberation of Paris was part of his destiny. Like the sound of a clanging church bell that could not be unrung, he knew there was no turning back for Rousseau and his Resistance members.